


His First Response

by gingertoadstools



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, basically just what i hope is going to happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingertoadstools/pseuds/gingertoadstools
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You would think he was going to be greeted with "You're alive!" or "I missed you!" or something to that effect.</p><p>Instead he got a fist. Figures. He might have deserved it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His First Response

**Author's Note:**

> Written solely because I am desperate for the lieutenants to be okay by the end of the season and also for bitters and grif interaction fics. i want so many grif and bitters interactions. And i figured that, hey, this is how ive been imagining this going down since episode 8. granted, i didn't think it'd be this bad, but. oh well
> 
> also i should post this now while it's still a possibility not yet shot down by canon oops.

His first response was to punch his captain, straight in the face. Bitters couldn’t place _where_ on the face he connected, but the sound determined that he definitively did, and that it couldn’t have been a nice feeling.

Grif staggered back, but less than expected. Almost as though this wasn’t an odd way for someone to welcome back a superior who was miraculously alive. He bowed his head, though, as if coming to terms with the event, and Bitters felt all of the other captains and his teammates watching him, uneasy. Somewhere in his peripheral vision, he could see the grey one jolt and all Bitters thought was, _if he fucking dares try to stop me, I can just fuck him up too._

His second response was to yell. He forced a grip onto Grif’s chestplate.

When he started, it was reciting. Memorized from repeating these angry words to himself, over and over, under his breath, back when the captains had first made the genius idea to, oh, go assault the enemy alone without any actual care for their young team’s opinions. Spitting out sentences he had tried to stop planning for a captain who wasn't supposed to be dead, but then again, when had the world ever saved anyone for Lieutenant Antoine Bitters? Apparently, now.

With one hand holding Grif by, essentially, the collarbone, Bitters felt all of his pre-thought phrases drop off into spittle and discontinuity and dreaded honesty. He had practiced his, “I didn’t care, but did you know how much the rest needed you?”s and “Are you always this unreliable?”s and “I can’t even begin to believe anyone could be a worse leader than you”s. Bitters had not thought about saying any of this.

“Did you really think we’d be better off with you all dead, thinking about how we might have done just a _little_ better and maybe could’ve gone with you and kept you alive?”

And, “It definitely didn’t _feel_ like it was for our sake – We assumed you thought we’d weigh you all down!”

And, “Nothing makes that okay, you know, leaving the entire goddamned New Republic to lose any semblance of hope a- _fucking_ -gain.”

And, “What in the fuck would make you think I wanted you to go without even having a chance to prove I could help?”

And, “Haven’t you ever been forced to feel helpless?”

And, “You were _dead_.”

His third response was to punch Grif again, suddenly aware of how much he’s said, and because he didn’t want to let himself say any more. He can see the grey one start walking toward him, stiff and, god, he was probably a fucking _cop_ before he first put on all of his armor for whatever war he was forced into, given how “stern” radiated off of his asphalt armor. Bitters allowed himself one glance straight that way.

Perhaps it hadn’t been a great idea, because Grif’s first response to being punched twice and verbally assaulted had been to wrap his arms around Bitters and ride it out. 

He spoke into Bitters’ chestplate, and the tone was genuine if the words inaudible. It sounded like apologies and explanations but Bitters couldn’t hear them.

It didn’t really matter that he couldn’t, really, because his arms dropped and his posture drooped lethargically and all of his furious energy drained out of him through his toes. Grif’s grip on his lieutenant hadn’t wavered, solidly supporting only as much as he had the right to now.

Bitters let his eyes close, so he didn’t see the great-grey-enforcer stop his approach all stunned. He didn’t acknowledge his teammates’ gazes becoming quietly sympathetic. 

Suddenly aware of just how tired he’d been for so long, he let his head fall and his arms drape weakly around the supposedly dead man. This sent a message down to Grif, who readjusted his hold, a little stronger now, reassured that he was allowed to.

Lieutenant Antoine Bitters’ fourth response to learning his captain was actually alive was to place his visor against the crown of Grif’s helmet and say, weakly and sincerely, “I’m glad you’re okay, sir.”


End file.
